My husband is a little starved for affection. His Catholic school teaching job has him working all the time—including various Friday night socials and random Sunday morning masses and open houses. Seems he can’t escape his West Virginia coal-miner roots, only company scrip is now company scripture. The hours are long. Marty has seven preps a day and goes to bed at 9:00 so he can wake up at 4:30 to plan classes.
Consequently, he’s tired all the time. Sometimes, even when we can squeeze past our daughter’s open door, he’s too tired for some nine-o’clock nookie. And last night, when Marty got home from the school dance at 11:15, I was asleep.
We just can’t seem to find any time for—you know.
Last night, I reluctantly installed my two-week heart monitor. This morning, in the kitchen, while my daughter was upstairs playing Twisted Sister’s “I Wanna Rock” in her bedroom (her electric guitar and practice amp are up there), Marty said to me, “Show me your titties!”
I grimaced as I lifted my shirt to reveal the electrodes and wires and pads. But this is how long it’s been. He said, “Hey! You look good with medical stuff hooked up to you. Maybe we can get you an IV!”
Hot is great. But hot without humor doesn’t last for twenty-five years.